


One Fewer Griffin

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angry Villagers, Feels about the sacking of witcher scools, Gen, Self-Sacrifice, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26801758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: Coën can't help but try to do the right thing, even when it gets him into trouble with villagers who are suspicious of witchers. This time, however, he may not be able to get out of trouble on his own.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 46
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	One Fewer Griffin

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Whumptober prompt #3: "forced to their knees"

Coën could only be what he was. That was the thing. He knew that some witchers wouldn’t have given a pile of wyvern shit for the life of a peasant girl, but Coën couldn’t see things that way. The girl had been desperate enough to escape her situation that she’d thrown herself on a witcher’s mercy, which meant whatever she was running from was more frightening to her than a murderous mutant freak. So of course Coën had agreed to escort her to the next village. 

What exactly went wrong he’d probably never know, but when he arrived to fetch the girl at sunset, as they’d agreed, he found the whole village turned out to greet him. They held blazing torches and the weapons they favored--scythes and pitchforks and axes. Coën drew his blade, ready to defend himself, but then he heard a short, stifled cry and his eyes zeroed in on Vasya, the girl who’d asked for his help. 

Her father, a broad-shouldered brute of a man with a perpetual sneer, was holding Vasya by the hair. He had a knife pressed to her bare throat, and he was staring right at Coën.

“Come here, witcher,” the man called. “I have something to say to you.”

Coën could leave. He had no contract here; the girl had offered him no coin. But he’d promised. He’d given his word. He stepped forward into the light of the torches, keeping his eyes on Vasya’s father while he tracked the other villagers around him, who were alert and watching but didn’t seem to want to get too close.

“You’ve ruined my girl. No one will have her now,” the man shouted at him, and the crowd gave a low, angry rumble. Vasya whimpered, and her father shook her. “Shut up, harlot.”

Coën could have pointed out that he’d not so much as touched Vasya. Hadn’t gotten close enough to know her eye color or what she smelled like. But there was no use defending himself to this man. A witcher’s word would mean nothing against whatever horrible trespass this man already assumed.

“Let her go,” Coën said, keeping his voice calm and level. “And we’ll both leave.”

“You shan’t have her, demon spawn!” the man shouted. Cries of “demon” and “devil” bubbled up around the village square, and the bolder of the crowd pressed forward to brandish their weapons. “No, you won’t be leaving here. Get on your knees, witcher, or the girl dies.”

Coën looked at the knife pressed to Vasya’s throat. Dull, or it would have cut her skin already. But the man held her like an animal he meant to slaughter. He _would_ kill her, of that Coën had no doubt. And they stood far enough away that Coën wasn’t certain he could prevent it if the man tried.

Coën held his sword steady and took a step back. The crowd closed behind him, encircling him. They weren’t all armed. He could kill them. Igni to punch a hole through the circle and panic them, his sword to cut down anyone who got too close, grab the girl and run. But when he thought of the screaming and terror, the smell of burnt flesh and hair, the scrape of his sword against bone, he knew he wouldn’t. 

_Butcher of Blaviken_ echoed in his mind. He remembered when that story had been on the lips of every witcher in Kaer Seren: their contempt and anger that one of those over-emotional Wolves had caused such harm to the witcher reputation. Work would be more dangerous than usual in the next season, with peasants warier than ever and everyone reluctant to engage a witcher at any price. Coën couldn’t be the cause of another such incident. He wouldn’t do that to what few of his brothers remained. 

“Witcher! I said kneel.”

Coën dropped his fighting stance and let his sword slide from his hands into the dirt. Master Keldar would have scolded him for being so careless with a weapon. But Master Keldar was dead, along with almost all the Griffins. And soon Coën would join them.

Vasya’s father grinned and lowered the knife, though he kept hold of his daughter’s hair. “Take him.”

The villagers surged forward. Coën saw one of them grab his sword, then grunted as someone struck him in the face. Many hands were pulling and pushing at him, bearing him down to the ground. He wondered if they’d beat him to death, or stone him. Perhaps they’d make it quick and turn his own sword on him.

Then the eager shouting around him turned to screams of terror. The hands holding Coën disappeared, and he looked up in time to see a column of fire light up the sky. The ground shook underneath him as the village’s herd of cattle stampeded into the square, bawling and tossing their heads as the villagers scattered before them. 

Coën dived to scoop up his sword from where it had been abandoned in the dirt. He had no idea what had happened, but he didn’t intend to waste the distraction. He searched the square for Vasya. She was cowering against the wall of a house as the cattle rushed by, and her father was nowhere in sight. 

Coën dodged running villagers and cows to get to her, and held out his hand. “We need to go.”

She looked up, eyes wide with terror, and recognized him. Then her eyes narrowed and she slapped him across the face. “Get away, demon. You’ve caused me nothing but harm.”

Coën stepped back, opening his mouth to protest, but she screamed at him, “Get away!”

Another column of flame roared into the sky. The villagers and cattle were causing equal amounts of chaos now, bellowing and running in panic. Coën looked around for what had caused all the fuss. If some kind of monster was attacking, Coën couldn’t just leave the villagers to its mercy. 

At the far edge of the square stood a figure on a horse, a bastion of calm in the midst of the chaos. Two sword hilts protruded over the man’s shoulder, silhouetted in the fading twilight. Another witcher? Whoever he was, the man seemed to be searching the crowd for something. His yellow eyes fixed on Coën. Then he spurred his horse forward, cutting neatly through fleeing villagers and wandering cows right towards Coën. 

The horse skidded to a stop at Coën’s side, and the man reached a hand down. He was older, a grizzled face with hair slicked back from his forehead and armor neatly kept and polished. Definitely a witcher, but beyond that, it mattered little at the moment. Coën clasped the man’s arm and swung up behind the saddle. He held on tight as the man kicked his mount back into motion, and they galloped into the darkness of the woods, away from the village. 

As soon as the screaming had subsided behind them, the witcher slowed his horse. “You have a mount around here, lad?” he asked. 

“By the river,” Coën said. In the dark, he wasn’t sure he could have pointed the way, but the witcher only nodded and turned his horse aside. 

It wasn’t long until Coën could smell water. Soon after, he caught sight of his horse, grazing placidly on the greenery around where she’d been tied. 

The witcher stopped his mount, allowing Coën to slide off. When Coën had assured himself his horse was all right, he turned back to the other witcher, who sat watching him with an unreadable expression.

“Thank you for the rescue,” Coën said. He felt that more than that was in order, though he wasn’t sure what. He tried offering his name, “I’m Coën.”

“Vesemir,” the man said. “You’re a Griffin?”

“I…” Coën looked down at the medallion resting against his chest. It must have come untucked from his shirt in all the confusion. “Yes.”

“Aren’t many of you left,” Vesemir said.

Coën tried to answer, but his breath caught in his throat, thinking of the corpses buried in the rock along with the place that had once been his home. There had almost been one fewer Griffin today.

“Well, I’m a Wolf,” Vesemir continued, graciously ignoring Coën’s speeding heart. “Aren’t many of us, either.”

“I, ah, haven’t much to repay you,” Coën said reluctantly. As the weather had turned cold, contracts got scarcer: everyone conserving and storing what they could for the long winter ahead. If Coën had had somewhere to hole up and be safe, he’d have been doing the same. Instead, here he was, eking out barely enough for his and his horse’s keep. And now, he wasn’t sure how he would bring himself to ride into another village looking for work. He tugged open his purse, which was almost empty. “Whatever I have I can give you.”

“Not necessary.” Vesemir waved a hand dismissively. “Griffins are decent. You’d have done the same for me or one of mine.”

Coën nodded. He would have helped another witcher, if he’d come across one in the kind of danger Coën himself had faced today. But if he ever met a Wolf in trouble, he’d make certain to do whatever he could.

Vesemir turned his horse back towards the road and nudged it forward. At the edge of the path, he reined in his horse and turned in the saddle. “Where will you go? For the winter, I mean.”

Coën said, “As long as there’s work to do, I’ll do it.” He wanted to look away, stare at the ground, but Vesemir’s yellow eyes held his.

Vesemir grunted. He looked at Coën a long moment, then said, “Kaer Morhen’s not what it once was, but it stands. The Wolves still winter there. You’d be welcome to join us, if you’re willing to work for your keep. There’s no idle hands among us--too much to do to keep the old place fit to live in.”

“I… Would I be allowed?” Coën asked. He hadn’t ever heard of a witcher who wasn’t a Griffin wintering at Kaer Seren, but that had been before, when things were different.

“I’m inviting you, aren’t I?” Vesemir said gruffly.

“Yes. I… yes.” Coën clasped his hands and bowed his head. “I would be very… I’d be honored.”

“All right, grifflet, there’s no call for all that.” Vesemir made a shooing motion. “Let’s get moving. We’ll need to make good time to get there before the snows.”

“Of course.” Coën scrambled into the saddle, feeling the weight of the day’s events slide from him as he mounted. Vesemir waited for Coën to reach him, then led the way north, towards the promise of something like home.

**Author's Note:**

> Join me for more Witcher stuff on Tumblr: [brighteyedjill](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/brighteyedjill). I kinda suspect there's gonna be more Coën.


End file.
